“If someone says they believe in something, does that mean they think it’s right, or that it’s real?”

I looked up from my magazine. “What?”

“Well, I think it’s a fair question.”

The man seated beside me had just spoken. He was older, probably middle aged, with big owl-eyed glasses and a brown plaid suit. I didn’t understand why this stranger was talking to me, let alone asking me philosophical questions.

Still, I considered his query. “It definitely depends,” I said. “But probably real unless you add a verb.”

He crossed his legs, as if allowing me to continue.

“Let’s say I believe in God,” I explained. “Obviously, I am telling you I think God exists. But, let’s say I believe in worshipping God. Then I am telling you I think worshipping God is right.”

He considered this. “Alright. Let’s say I believe in train rides.”

“Uh huh.”

“I would be telling you I don’t think train rides exist,” he relayed. “But if I said, I believe in taking train rides… then I’d be telling you I think trains are worth riding.”

“Precisely.”

“Huh.”

I looked down at my magazine, drumming on it. After a minute I spoke again. “I don’t think it applies to people, though.”

“Hm?” he asked.

“Let’s say I believe in you. Or I believe in any living thing, really. Then I’d be giving encouragement to that living thing, to keep going. To keep trying. To keep living.”

“Ah,” he said. “So saying you don’t believe in someone doesn’t necessarily mean you’re doubting their existence. You’re just doubting their abilities.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Ah.” He paused, smiling oddly. “Do you believe in me?”

“Hm,” I replied. “That depends. I haven’t learned much about you, so I can’t speak for your abilities. But if I’m speaking for your existence, well, then I’m sure I believe in you.”

He looked at me. “So you’re sure I’m real? Not a figment of your imagination?”

“Well, sure. I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

I returned to my magazine. What a strange man I just met, I thought. You meet the strangest people on trains.

I read my magazine for a while, quietly flipping through the pages. I sipped my coffee. I ate a scone. I coughed a bit. After a good time of that, I hadn’t heard a sound from the man next to me, and wondered if he had fallen asleep. I glanced over at where he had been sitting, but— he was gone.

I went to the toilet to see if he was in there. Gone.

I checked the dining car, sleeping car, a few other compartments. Gone.

I checked everywhere. Gone, gone, gone. No sight of him.

Later, as I was leaving, I asked the train conductor about the man. I described his features, his seat number, his persona. The conductor didn’t remember ever letting him on. In fact, he never remembered ever speaking to a man like that at all.

I swear I felt a little whisper on my neck as I got off. Something about doubting someone’s existence.

You meet the strangest people on trains.